Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon_Regency Novella Read online

  With their mouths pressed close once more, Mellie parted her lips, and immediately, his tongue shot forward, exploring and tangling with hers as, all the while, she nestled her body closer to his. But his hands no longer remained on her backside, caressing and massaging her trembling flesh. Instead, with aching slowness, he moved his palms to her waist and slid his light touch up her sides to the curve of her heaving bosom. Despite her many layers of clothing, Mellie felt his fingers as they journeyed upward—felt the heat of his touch.

  She sighed into his mouth as he reached behind her and popped her buttons from their holds—one at a time with swift fingers. Never once did he pull his lips from hers, and never once did the rhythm of their kiss veer off course.

  Blessedly, her bodice loosened, giving Mellie the opportunity to breathe in deeply. When her chest expanded, her breasts pushed more firmly against his chest, fighting for space as Brigham took not even a step away from her.

  The warm air provided by the hearth washed over her now bare skin at her shoulders.

  She pulled back a mere inch. “Brigham?”

  Mellie was uncertain what question she asked: that he stop and allow her a moment to breathe, or speed up and ravish her with all due haste.

  Brigham trailed light kisses across her cheek and down her neck, nipping along the way.

  She had no desire for him to stop, but she was also hesitant to increase their tempo. Instead, Brigham made the decision for her and slowed their pace as his lips moved farther down and over her clavicle to her mounded cleavage. All the while, his hand tugged at the shoulder of her gown, exposing more of her heated skin to his touch.

  There was nothing for her to do but throw her head back and revel in his caresses, concentrate on his every touch, and pray to the Lord above that her knees did not buckle beneath her.

  Brigham trailed his lips along her shoulder and down her arm as he inched the bodice of her gown ever lower. It was his turn to torture her as his breath stroked the globes of her heavy breasts—sweet, sweet agony.

  Her eyes sprang open, and her entire body tensed as his lips gently grazed her budded nipple.

  A shiver threatened to have her collapsing before him as wave after wave of pure, raw, pleasure coursed through her and pooled between her clenched thighs.

  Was this what women hurried to their wedded bed for each night?

  A part of her screamed that there was more to come, far more pleasure to be had.

  This was what she’d longed to give Brigham. The only gift that was hers to give, as it were. Her. And, if she were blessed, a Whitmore heir.

  As it was, they would both reap much happiness and pleasure from their union.

  An uninhibited moan escaped her when Brigham latched on to her nipple and gently suckled through the fabric of her bodice, his hand delicately kneading her still-covered breast.

  She tilted to the side, her legs finally giving in to the pleasure, but Brigham was there to hold her upright as his lips began their journey back up, over her mounded breast, to her neck. The air in the room brushed her sensitive, hardened peak and a pant caught in her throat.

  The urge to push him back down toward her bust, demand he apply his skills ever more to her as yet still bodice and shift-covered breast, was nearly more than she could suppress as she sucked in a ragged breath.

  “Yes, this…this…” She could barely force the words past her kiss-swollen lips. “Brigham, I—“

  “Shhh,” he whispered at her throat. “I know what you want.”

  How could he know what she wanted when Mellie hadn’t any idea?

  But his kisses and scorching touch continued. This was the way of things between them: they spoke of trivial things to mask what they truly had need to discuss. And now, he plied her with pleasure beyond her wildest dreams, making speech unimportant.

  There was so much Mellie longed to tell Brigham, though… before it was too late.

  If they had only this brief, intimate moment she wanted him to know that she gave herself freely and with no reservations.

  “Brigham.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. “I have been so blessed by your kindness. I seek to give you the heir you deserve.” Mellie paused, pulling air into her lungs as his hand stilled at her breast. “This is the only gift I have to give, to repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

  He pulled his mouth from her cheek, and his hands dropped to his sides.

  “Brigham?” Mellie took a step toward him, seeking to bring him back to her, but he moved away as his head fell to his hands—hands that had only a moment before been giving her immense pleasure.

  “This is about an heir?” he demanded in a low, calm voice.

  “Yes, but I—“

  “You think I came to Hockcliffe in want of an heir?” He pivoted away from her and retrieved his glasses from the table, jamming them on his face with more force than necessary. “You think my only motivation in coming here was to bed you?”

  Mellie’s mind reeled at his sudden anger as she attempted to wrap her mind around what was transpiring between them. “Does not every lord seek an heir?”

  “No lord is foolish enough to believe they can beget an heir without a proper marriage first.”

  But they were properly wed, were they not?

  “I did not come here to bed you, Melloria.”

  A treacherous sob broke free from her lips as she covered her flaming face with her hands.

  She’d known all along this could very well be the outcome. Years had passed since they wed, and never once had either of them sought comfort or pleasure in the arms of the other. It could only mean that Brigham had searched for those things with another outside their marriage. She could not, would never, blame him for finding love and affection elsewhere.

  Brigham was a man with needs; needs Mellie had been unable to fulfill either physically or emotionally.

  Was there another woman he sought to birth his child?

  Without another glance at Brigham, she turned and fled the cottage, leaving the door open in her wake—escaping into the icy cold December morning, her cloak and gloves forgotten, her attire in disarray.

  Mellie hadn’t a direction in mind, nor was she capable of such focus as she ran through the biting wind, its frigid tendrils lashing at her face and exposed skin. Clumsily, she kept moving as she pulled up her gown to cover her, but clasping the buttons at her back proved impossible as she stumbled over the hem of her dress.

  Righting herself, she sped on, never glancing behind her.

  For what would injure her more: his initial rejection and horror at her words, or that he didn’t chase after her?

  Chapter Eight

  Brigham paced back and forth in the tiny cottage office, unable to bring himself to return to rational thought. He removed his spectacles and tossed them onto the desk, but they skidded and fell off the side, clattering to the plank floor. He didn’t retrieve them, he did not even hurry over to see if he’d damaged them…blast it all, but he had no desire to even look at them.

  Much as he was doing now with Mellie. He should have run after her. Should have hurried to her and made certain she was uninjured despite his harsh, cruel words. He should want to behold nothing but her.

  She was selfless to a fault.

  …and he’d failed her once again.

  Peddling her body to give him an heir? She deserved far more than to be reduced to a breeding tool as a way to serve both Brigham and society, producing a much coveted and demanded heir. She was worth far more than what her body could produce. Using her for that purpose would be the ultimate betrayal, something beyond forgiveness, no matter how profusely he begged at her feet.

  And that was exactly where Brigham deserved to be: at Mellie’s feet, begging her for mercy he didn’t deserve and hadn’t earned.

  First, he’d convinced her to wed him when she was grieving her dead father.

  Then he’d abandoned her to her own hell, leaving her to care for her dying mother.

 
And lastly, he’d only returned but once a year, sharing nothing of himself. In turn, she’d kept her longings and desires to herself. He’d been rash to think she’d ever open up to him when he’d done nothing but keep her at arm’s length.

  He shouldn’t have come to Hockcliffe. He should have accepted her choice to remain in the country unburdened by him.

  To think Mellie thought she owed him something—anything.

  It was Brigham who owed her everything.

  He hadn’t been man enough to stick by her side after they wed, help her care for her mother, and discover if there could be true affection between them. They’d kissed once. They’d spent nearly every holiday together, their families being very close. They’d played, they’d laughed, they’d conversed together for all these years. Since childhood, they’d spoken of grave matters and trivial occurrences; however, that had all stopped when they wed. But why?

  Brigham had long held that they had, indeed, shared a mutual affection in their youth.

  He scrubbed at his face, running his hands through his tangled curls. That was a bad choice, too, as all he could think of was Mellie’s delicate fingers caressing his neck and tugging at his hair when they were wrapped in their intimate embrace.

  Why had he sought his own work, leaving their budding love to deteriorate?

  Love.

  Neither had ever so much as spoken the word before or after they wed. Brigham because it would have crushed him, left him without drive to go on if she did not return his love.

  Nevertheless, Brigham had loved her. Continued to love her, if only from a distance.

  How had they never found time to discuss this?

  His heavy steps echoed angrily in the tiny cottage, mirroring the disdain he felt for himself.

  “A gentleman?” he snorted. “Hardly.”

  What sort of man worth anything allowed his wife to wallow and languish alone in the country for years on end?

  A coward.

  And he’d thought he could return home with a trinket for Christmastide and all would be as it should have been years ago. Perhaps he’d lost all sense with his failure in London.

  London.

  He’d had plans before her father fell ill. Mellie was to journey to town during her seventeenth year for a proper London Season. Brigham would have followed behind her, watching as she explored life among society while he championed his first reform bill. They would have eventually come together, and he’d thought to offer for her hand before the Season was complete.

  Instead, the sickness—which took so many hardworking coalminers—had struck, bringing her father low long before his time. Mellie had selflessly delayed her Season, unknowingly dooming herself to nearly eight years of hardship.

  What would have happened if fate hadn’t dealt them the harsh blow it had and made their marriage a necessity?

  Would Mellie have chosen another man to wed, perchance a far more suitable lord? A man whose courage and honor dwarfed Brigham’s?

  She deserved a man unafraid to speak of love—a man who didn’t find it necessary to hide his true feelings their entire lives.

  His cowardly way of securing their marriage had denied Mellie the husband—and no doubt the horde of children—she’d been destined to have. It was a regret he would live with his entire life and be haunted by in the hereafter.

  There was no one and nothing to blame but himself.

  Pivoting once more and heading back toward the desk, Brigham noted something lying upon the chair. He swooped down and retrieved his glasses. He set them to rights and brought the object into focus.

  Mellie’s cloak and gloves.

  She’d fled the cottage, into the icy morning, without the benefit of cloak or gloves—and with her gown askew. It was a long, brisk walk back to the manor, especially in the harsh December weather. Even with the snow holding off for the better part of the season, the biting winds would make their way through her gown and chill her to the bone within minutes. She’d be near freezing long before she made it back to Hockcliffe.

  Grabbing her cloak and gloves, Brigham departed the cottage, slamming the door behind him but not bothering to replace the ledger in its place on the shelf.

  He cared not a whit about the bloody accounts.

  The only thing holding his attention and worthy of his time was Melloria.

  Brigham pulled his reins free from the post and swung up onto his horse, driving his heels deep into the beast’s sides as he took off in the direction of the manor. She couldn’t have journeyed far on foot; however, glancing up, the sun had progressed in the sky.

  How long had he wallowed in his self-pity?

  Thundering across the field, he kept his eyes on the landscape and any sign of Mellie. He rode unheeded through crops and barren meadows without regard for anything but finding his wife. All the while, his chest burned, ached with the need for her forgiveness. Her understanding, though he was unworthy of either.

  Hockcliffe came into view on the horizon, but Mellie was nowhere to be seen.

  Had she gone in another direction? Was she out in the elements, freezing and in danger because Brigham had rebuffed her offer—her generous and selfless proposal?

  Leaning low over his horse’s neck, he prodded the beast forward, much as he’d rode into Hockcliffe the previous day.

  Yet, the day before, he’d been riding headlong to get away from something. Today, he rode toward someone.

  He should have never ridden away from her to begin with.

  Brigham had leapt from his horse before the animal even stopped and ran for the door. If she weren’t within, he would return to search for her.

  Danvers pulled the door wide before Brigham reached the top step. “My lord. Is something amiss?”

  “Your mistress, Mellie,” he shouted. “Is she within?”

  “Why, yes, I believe I caught sight of her scurrying up the servants’ stairs not five minutes ago, my lord.”

  Brigham pushed past the servant only pausing to discard her cloak and gloves, ignoring the man’s confusion and offer of assistance as he took the stairs three at a time until he strode down the hall that housed his room.

  Though he did not continue to the large double doors at the end of the corridor; instead, he stopped before the entrance to Mellie’s private chamber. He reached for the latch, prepared to throw the door open and rush inside, but he stilled his hand and took a deep breath. She’d arrived home safely, and there was no need to barge into her private quarters like a brute devoid of all manners.

  Quashing his aggression, Brigham lifted his clenched fist and knocked.

  Footsteps sounded inside as someone moved swiftly to answer the door.

  As the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, he realized he’d never taken a step into her chambers before, nor so much as even looked past the threshold.

  This day would be no different as he stared into the widened eyes of Lilly, Mellie’s lady’s maid.

  Brigham stood mute, listening for any sign that Mellie was within.

  “Yes, my lord?” Lilly dipped into a curtsey. “How can I be of service?”

  Everyone in his household was offering him assistance, but he feared the situation had progressed too far for anyone to be of any help to him in his plight to secure his wife’s forgiveness.

  “My lord?”

  “Mellie—Lady Whitmore—is she within?” His voice was gravelly as if he’d been crying… and perhaps he had. His anguish paled in comparison to the heartbreak he’d noted on Mellie’s face before she fled the cottage. “Is she here? Where is your mistress?”

  The servant shrank back into the room.

  “She—she—she left this morn in pursuit of you, my lord.”

  “Are you certain you have not seen her since?”

  “No, Lord Whitmore,” the maid squeaked, placing her hand to her throat. “Did she not find you at the steward’s cottage?” Concern flooded the servant’s face, furrowing her brow.

  How was he to admit to t
he women who’d watched over his wife when he was too much of a scoundrel to care for her properly that he’d wounded Mellie and caused her to flee in desperation?

  Chapter Nine

  Mellie grasped the groom’s proffered hand and stepped down from the carriage with Lilly close behind her as Danvers and Peter rushed from the manor to collect the pies, cheese, and fresh bread that the villagers had sent for their lord on this Christmastide eve.

  She glanced about, determined to enter the house as she had after fleeing the cottage… unnoticed. Though, the distance and time—and urgency of the morning—was gone. No longer did tears streak her face, no longer were her eyes swollen from the wind and her sobs escaping her without notice as she’d ran across the meadow separating the steward’s office and the manor, and not even the heat of his kiss lingered at her lips.

  Poised and composed, with her emotions firmly in hand, Mellie would enter Hockcliffe as the mistress of the manor did. No one would be the wiser to her anguish from the morning.

  It had been rather simple to avoid the house—and Brigham—for the entirety of the day. Now would be no different. There had been matters in the kitchen to attend to, gifts to deliver to the children in the village, and now, with the full moon high above in the clear night sky, Mellie was nervous of seeing Brigham within the house. Certainly, he paced the corridors.

  She’d heard him in the study when she snuck from the house earlier. His heavy footfalls pausing every ten paces before starting anew. If she closed her eyes, she could visualize him stalking from his desk to the door and back again. Thankfully, Lilly had let slip her mistress would be in the village most of the day and Brigham hadn’t pursued her when her carriage left the manor.

  If something weighed on his shoulders, he hadn’t trusted her enough to speak of it… which was his right as a lord. Though their moments together in the cottage spoke much of a deeper connection between them, even if he fought against it. Even if he kept something from her, perhaps news from town, they could converse on other topics—namely, the passion they’d both nearly fallen prey to.